


Disarming

by battle_cat



Series: Together [7]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Porn, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Rape/Non-con, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 22:45:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12804000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: She wants him to undress her.





	Disarming

She wants him to undress her.

She realizes after perhaps twenty nights together that she is always the one to remove her own clothes. She decides how much and how fast—even if it couldn’t be fast enough—and he has always followed her lead, in the way he does most things, reliably and without asking for attention. He hasn’t so much as unfastened a buckle without her explicit permission.

It seems an absurd barrier to maintain, now that she’s been skin to skin with him, but that is the bit of control she has clung to, more reflex than conscious thought. But. She wants to let him peel off her armor, strip her down to her skin, decide which parts of her to unwrap. Imagining it fills her with a heady thrill.

She had trusted him with her life before she knew his name. She wants to be able to trust him with this.

That night they begin in the way that has almost become a ritual, slipping back to her room after dinner to press each other against the nearest hard surface. She keeps pulling him closer, closer, girding herself between the stone at her back and the heat of his body as they breathe the same breath.

“Take my clothes off?” she whispers against his lips when they break apart for a moment. And then, because it comes out less self-assured than she’d hoped, “I want you to.”

He’s so close she can barely read his face, but his mouth twitches up in a tiny smile. His hands drift to the belts around her torso. She gives him a small nod of encouragement.

Her arm. No one touches her arm, as any War Boy who’d gotten a metal hand around his throat well knows. Max is careful and slow, loosening the buckles one by one, and she’s inordinately caught up in watching his fingers on the worn leather. She helps him slide the pauldron off her shoulder, laying the mechanics carefully on the workbench to be cleaned later. When she turns back to him her gaze catches his and his eyes are shining.

The stiff leather around her midriff has long since been patched from its knife wounds. It’s there for the prosthetic, so the belts don’t cut into her sides until she bleeds, but it’s armor too, a layer of safety over the thin muslin beneath. He stands close enough for their noses to brush while he unlaces it.

He leans in to kiss her as the leather drops to the floor, and then it’s just her shirt between her skin and his hands as they stroke firmly down her sides. He’s unhurried, taking his time to enjoy her mouth, just the very tips of his fingers sliding under the hem of her shirt, and she’s itching to just tug it off right now but—no. That isn’t the mission here. And every breath that he makes her wait, that she makes herself wait, stokes the fire of lust a little higher in her belly, so that when he finally does run his hands up under her shirt to brush the undersides of her breasts she moans. He slides her shirt up slowly, hands skimming over her ribcage, lingering on the curve of her breasts before she raises her arms to let him slip the fabric over her head.

His fingers move slowly over her bare torso, tracing lines and curves like he’s touching her for the first time. Her nipples are tight and hard; she shivers when a calloused thumb brushes over one. After a moment he tugs his own shirt off too. She presses into the sturdy warmth of his chest as he kisses her jaw, her throat. He is like her, scraped down by survival to hard planes, lean and functional, and that’s reassuring somehow. She doesn’t think she would fit against softness.

His hands skim down her sides, over her stomach. He is almost familiar enough with her belt and the fastenings of her pants to undo them by feel—he only has to look down once between gentle kisses. He slides a hand into her pants and makes a low, satisfied noise at how wet she is.

(She used to hate it, how sensitive she was, how easily her body could be made to respond, even when she was bound and snarling. He’d thought it was funny, when he was in that kind of mood. _At least your cunt is obedient—_ )

The numb, buzzing wave of fear swamps her in the span of a single heartbeat, the way a sandstorm appears out of nowhere on the horizon. It’s not there, and then it is, and then she’s swallowed in it, struggling to breathe through howling clouds of remembered terror.

She presses back against the wall, gasping, the rough stone suddenly freezing against her exposed skin but better than having nothing to ground herself against.

“Hey.” She’s dimly aware that Max has taken his hand out of her pants, and that he’s watching her with that look of careful, focused concern that twists something inside her. A cautious hand reaches up to touch her shoulder and she flinches before she can stop herself.

He’s stepping back, ready to give her space, and she _can’t—_ She latches onto his wrist before he gets out of range. She is barely at the point of understanding what she needs when this happens, but if he steps away it will feel like a defeat. “Don’t,” she hisses.

He stays.

They’re not touching, save for her fingers locked in a death grip around his wrist, but they’re close enough for her to feel his breath on her skin as she tries desperately to force every survival instinct back under her control. Underneath the icy roar of terror is a bright ribbon of anger, a line of fire that blooms higher the more she focuses on it, because this was _fine,_ this exact same touch was fucking _fine_ last night and that other night and all the nights before, and she wants to scream at having to dig these bits of shrapnel out of herself still, _still,_ after the thing itself is thousands of days in the past. It makes her itch to draw blood and crack bone and feel the concussive force of a rifle shot sent exactly where she wants it. She will burn the past down; she will burn it all down and salt the earth behind her—

She only realizes how hard she’s digging her nails into Max’s wrist when he makes a tiny sound. She forces her fingers to unclench. “Sorry.” There are bright red crescents on the inside of his wrist. “Sorry,” she mutters again. She can’t meet his gaze. “It’s not… It was nothing you did,” she says, because it wasn’t.

She’s still shaky, crackling with adrenaline where she was loose and relaxed before, but she manages not to twitch away when he reaches out very slowly to touch her cheek. His hands are so gentle, too gentle, cupping her face. She presses forward and sucks his bottom lip between her own.

He’s the one who pulls away. “We don’t have to…if you don’t want…” he says, even though she can feel him more than halfway hard through his pants. “We can stop.”

“Don’t you dare,” she growls, and leans in again to capture his mouth.

It takes him time to warm up again, despite the bulge she can feel in his pants, and there’s a sharp, urgent edge to her lust that wasn’t there before. It’s different; she feels like she’s driving them both over uneven ground a touch faster than maybe she should, but sometimes your options are fang it or get stuck.

If she could grind the past to dust between their bodies she would. She is certainly inclined to try.

She knows enough things that he likes by now, and she uses them all: her nails on the sensitive skin of his ribcage, her teeth nipping at his ear, her fingers teasing his cock through his pants until he ruts hard against her and she ruts back, all the while trying to push him toward that invisible edge where he stops being so careful with her. She doesn’t want careful right now.

Her pants are still hanging unbuttoned around her hips, her belt buckle digging into her thigh every time they grind together. She puts his hands on the waistband of her pants and murmurs, “Finish what you started.”

His hands hug the curve of her ass on the way to pushing her leathers halfway down her thighs. His fingers brush through her pubic hair and she feels him hesitate for just the barest fraction of a second before she guides his hand firmly into place between her legs. She moans at the first light touch, the tips of his fingers sliding between her lips. The long buildup has left her drenched; she can hear the obscene wet sound they make together when he slides a finger in and out of her.

He usually makes her come at least once before he fucks her, but she suddenly doesn’t care about that. She wants him to fill her, to remind herself that it feels good and that feeling of something moving inside her is hers now. She tugs at his belt and laces, impatient fingers maybe a little rougher than necessary. He groans with relief when together they shove his leathers out of the way enough to free his cock.

“Come on, now,” she hisses, tugging him closer, letting him slick the head of his cock against the wetness between her legs. Her pants have slid down to somewhere around her shins, but she still can’t spread her legs very wide like this. She is burning hot when he pushes into her, and tight, a lingering frisson of tension sparking along her nerves, but not so tight that she cannot accept him. There’s a slow breathless rocking together until he’s fully inside her.

They’re both gasping and sweaty, her bare ass pressed against the rock wall, her cunt spread around his cock while her body slowly relaxes into the sensation, and for a moment they’re both still and she finds herself trapped under his gaze, earnest and searching and entirely too penetrating to be held for long.

She kisses him, and then he rocks his hips and the kiss turns into a shuddering gasp, and then he’s moving inside her, slow but so overwhelming, one hand braced on the wall and a thumb on her clit. Slow becomes fast, and somewhere in the middle she shudders through a leg-jellying orgasm, and then another right before he finishes that has her burying moans against his shoulder that sound suspiciously like sobs.

When it’s done they are both shaking and he’s mostly holding her up, with the wall putting in half of the rest of the effort. They shuffle the handful of steps over to the stone bench at the worktable and collapse onto it, chests heaving.

After a moment he reaches over and threads his fingers through hers. She squeezes her eyes shut until she thinks she can open them without crying from sheer overwhelm.

After another moment he gets up from the bench, kneels down and eases off her boots and leathers. Then he unstraps his brace and sheds the rest of his clothes too, his bare shoulder and thigh just brushing hers on the bench.

When she thinks she can reliably stand up, she stumbles into the toilet alcove to piss and wipe the come from her thighs. Putting on her sleep clothes seems beyond her capacity, so she just climbs into bed and buries herself under the blankets naked.

After a minute he joins her. She lets him curl around her.

“I don’t…know how to stop that from happening,” she says when she’s no longer sure if he’s asleep or awake, and she hates that it sounds like an apology.

“I know,” he murmurs. “‘S okay.” He presses a soft kiss to her shoulder, and she hopes that he can’t feel the hitch in her breath under his hand where it’s resting on her solar plexus.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://fuckyeahisawthat.tumblr.com)


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